The Artist's Window
by KimiruMai
Summary: It was a good thing she liked walking, and it was a good thing that she took a different route one day, and it was a good thing she liked coffee, and it was a good thing he painted beautifully. Oneshot.


**Well, I…nevermind. I have no excuse for this whatsoever. If there are any mistakes I shall fix them later. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Song Prompt: I'm Not Crazy ~ Matchbox Twenty**

* * *

**The Artist's Window**

* * *

Once there was a young lady, who was heiress to a fine company that had radically changed Japan. She was smart, startlingly so, and she liked that about herself. She liked a lot of things about herself, actually. She was vain, as vain as her beauty permitted, and because she liked to look at herself in the mirror appreciatively, it was of great importance for her to remain thin. Although she had no reason not to occasionally enjoy chocolate as often as possible, she did for the most part eat healthily, and she sometimes went to the gym whenever her schedule allowed her to. Still, she felt as though she didn't exercise as much as she could, so she made a drastic change in her daily plans; she would walk to work.

The business's HQ wasn't too far from her house, although she did find the twenty minute walk tiring at first, what with all the things she had to carry. It did, however, beat being stuck in the insane traffic of West City, which could at times cause her trip to be 45 minutes long or more. So with flats on her feet and hells in her purse, she would trek through the crowded thongs of people each morning with blueprints in one hand and coffee in the other.

One morning, however, her usual route was blocked with construction workers that were repairing the sidewalk from whatever misfortune had befallen it. Irritated, as such a project might take weeks, she took a detour into Yasai Plaza. It would add another 7 minutes to her walk, at least, _if_ she hurried.

It was for this reason that she found herself speed walking down Buckingham Avenue, determined to make it to work on time. She was rarely in this part of town, mostly because there weren't many boutiques, but the plaza did have many cute, old shops that were fun to wander through on occasion. She didn't have time to slow down and look this morning, although she was curious as to what new stores had made their homes there. Perhaps on the way home, she decided, she would stop and have a look.

As she passed one building, however, something caught her eye, and, curious, she backed up to see what it was. The shop was small, the building slightly old fashioned, with an old, somewhat discolored, short sunshade and a big display window with a white, swirled design painted at the bottom. And even though the stained glass on the door distracted her a bit, what really captured her attention and held it was what was behind that big window.

Instead of merchandise, there was a single canvas set on a wooden stand, and on that stand was a cup of water with paintbrushes sticking out of it, and tube of paint that had been squeezed and half emptied. Beside the canvas was a small round table with a palate and more paints and brushes strewn across it, and a rag that was once cream colored but was now covered with various shades of paint.

And in front of that canvas, sitting on a stool, was a young man, clicking watercolors across the canvas.

He was perhaps her age, and didn't appear much taller than her. His hair was a charcoal black and stood up like a flame, and the skin exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his worn, white v-neck was darkly tanned and stretched over taunt muscle. He put red into the painting and paused, tapping the handle of the paintbrush on his faded jeans before he rinsed the bristles and dipped them in orange. His hands were covered in paint, calloused and steady, his fingernails short and barely visible beneath the colors. His painting was stunning; coy fish of various sizes and shades swam in a pond full of lily pads and smooth stones at the bottom.

As she paused to stare at it, her shadow fell through the window and across his work. Surprised at the lingering shape, he stopped and turned to look at her. His onyx eyes, deep and observing, swooped over her creamy skin, blue hair, the scarf around her neck and the pale leather jacket she wore over her orange sundress, all the way down to the cowboy boots on her feet and back up to meet her sky blue eyes. She blinked at him, and he at her, and his eyes traced the soft curve of her jaw and her small, delicate nose as she took in his firm jaw and sharp, prominent features. The paintbrush twitched in his fingers while he looked at her as though taking a photograph with his eyes, and then she remembered that she was late to work. She turned away sharply and went on her way, and the artist went back to his painting.

She didn't spare him another thought for the rest of the day, until she walked back home and saw the coy fish painting sitting finished in the window. The young man was gone, and the store was closed and empty.

When she walked by the nest morning, he sat at a sketchpad, copying the image of the small, blooming dogwood branch that sat in a vase on the little table onto the paper with a flat HB pencil. When her shadow fell across him again, he paused for a moment, then looked back at her with his studious dark eyes. After a moment, he turned back to his drawing and started sketching a new leaf. She watched him for a minute or two more, then took a big gulp of coffee and continued on her way to work.

And so while she worked on inventions all day, the artist worked on his sketch for many hours while people walked in and out of the shop, some to buy pencils or pens or brushes or paints or chalks or charcoals or papers or frames, and some just to sit in the window with him, either as spectators or models. Sometimes they would buy what he made, or ask special requests. Sometimes it wouldn't take long, and he would sketch someone's face in an hour, and sometimes it would take longer because curls were hard and people on occasion wanted monsters or sceneries that he only had worded descriptions of. Most people knew what they wanted and didn't bother him until they were ready to purchase, though whether that was because he was always working on something or because of his unusual quietness was both unclear and irrelevant.

So he drew in color or black and white, or he sketched with charcoal or painted with oils and acrylics and watercolors, and each morning the young woman would come walking by the store with her blueprints and coffee. She'd watch him paint oceans or sketch the faces of children that come to have their portraits made for cheap money, or wild animals, or creatures he designed himself, or scenes of the plaza.

Every day she'd stop for a few minutes to visit, for lack of a better word, though she never once went inside or spoke to him. Weeks went by, with the same occurance happening at similar times every morning, despite the fact that the sidewalk of her previous route had been fixed, and every evening when she walked home through the crowded streets, he'd already be gone.

Then one morning, he had again set up a canvas, and with his watercolors he had splashed skin toned paint in the shape of bare shoulders , a slender neck and soft jaw, and he was taking a soft pink and was painting delicate lips. When she stopped to watch, he turned and studied her face for a very long time, and no matter how long she stood there staring back at him, he refused to look away. Eventually she reached the point where she would be late for work if she didn't leave, and she hurried on to her usual destination, feeling only slightly bothered by his lingering black eyes.

The next morning, when she walked by again, he had added a nose and carefully detailed, gentle blue eyes with long, turquoise lashes. She blinked, studying him as his small brush flicked across the brow and left pale blue behind.

On the third day that he worked on the watercolor piece, she left work early. The sun had moved and begun to turn orange, casting a soft glow over his broad shoulders and steady hands as he painted. Intending to watch longer this time, she stopped at the window and took in the beautiful blue hair he'd painted around her face, framing her features and floating as if under water. It spread all over the canvas in shades of aquamarine and turquoise and sky blue and every other pale blue she could imagine, blended perfectly, and the paint bleeding out over the surface in no particular shape. His brow knitted slightly as he laid spots of blue onto her bare shoulders as though she was something of a mystical cerulean siren, his fingers drumming on faded jeans as he studied his work so far.

The image he'd created was breathtaking, and she gave a small gasp when she saw it. Warmth bloomed in her stomach, and after hesitating for a moment, she reached out and knocked gently on the glass.

He glanced back, saw it was her, and scrambled up from his stool, nearly knocking it over. It was then that she could see the entire painting, and she smiled at it before she briefly turned her gaze to him, then went inside. The artist was still staring at her when she walked in, his mouth slightly agape in surprise.

"I'd like to have that," she said, nodding towards the art. "It's very beautiful."

He snatched the rag from his jeans pocket and wiped his hands off. "It's not finished," he murmured, his cheeks flushed, and for once, he didn't meet her eyes.

She smiled again. "You can finish it if you like. It's wonderful the way it is, though. Can…I ask what made you paint that?"

His fingers fidgeted with the paintbrush that he'd picked up as she spoke. His blush deepened, and he shrugged.

"Do you mind if I watch you finish?" she asked.

His dark eyes shot up to meet hers for a moment, and he nodded. "There's a chair folded up in the corner over there," he said, motioning to it.

She nodded, having recognized it as the one people sat in to model while he created portraits, and went to get it. Feeling slightly clumsy, she unfolded it, set her things on the floor beside her, and sat. He glance over at her once as he chose another brush and sat down, all the boldness from before gone, as though the window had been a shield. He pressed his lips together and steadied his breath and his hands before dipping the brush in blue and adding in some of the highlights of her hair. She watched him quietly for a moment, noticing how his cheeks darkened the longer she looked. Her eyes twinkled, and she asked, "What's your name?"

He looked at her, his gaze unwavering, braver this time. "Vegeta," he answered.

Her smile brightened, just a little, as warm as the autumn sun on her face. "I'm Bulma," she replied.

A small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he nodded in greeting before he went back to painting.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while after that, and then he asked, "You ever been to the café on 31st Street?"

She studied his hands, the smile still lingering on her lips. "No," she answered. "Any good black coffee there?"

Vegeta shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. I drink decaf." He paused, dipping his brush in water and selecting another shade. "I could take you there sometime if you want."

Her smile blossomed fully again. "I'd like that," she said, and a faint smirk appeared on his face.

He would ask her out again a week later, a few days after she'd hung the painting up in her bedroom.

* * *

**Call me dorky if you like, but I love the idea of Vegeta having artistic talents. What can I say, I'm a sucker for the creative type ^^**

**Anyway, I think this is cute. **

**REVIEW PLEASE!**

**~KimiruMai**


End file.
